Excerpt of Want to Know a Secret? by Sue Moorcroft

Two towering policemen filled Diane’s kitchen,
incongruous amongst the splatter and clutter of dinner
preparation and her hand sewing litter draping the chair
backs. She touched the fabric, as if the blue satin
intended for a prom dress would keep her knees from
buckling. ‘How badly is he hurt?’

The older, taller of the two officers hovered closer.
‘Our information is that Mr Jenner’s in no immediate
danger but has been injured. He was helped at the scene
and taken to Peterborough District Hospital.’

Diane imagined the busy A47 on Gareth’s route home and an
ambulance nosing its way through traffic chaos to their
silver Peugeot bent and twisted. And Gareth trapped
inside. She swallowed. ‘Where? Did it happen, I mean?’

‘The helicopter in which Mr Jenner was a passenger
unfortunately crashed on take-off from Medes Airfield,
this afternoon.’

‘Helicopter?’ Relief whooshed through Diane, slackening
the sinews that panic had tightened. For an instant she
thought that her head might actually snap backwards like
a puppet with a string cut. ‘Helicopter? He’s as likely
to be in a flying saucer.’ She laughed, flopping into a
kitchen chair and flipping her waist-long plait over her
shoulder. As if Gareth would somehow magic himself into
one of those clattering monsters when he should be
fitting ventilation units to industrial buildings!

The policemen exchanged glances. ‘Is your husband here,
Mrs Jenner?’

‘Well, no he’s late – but Gareth works all the hours that
God sends, he’s probably been held up in the wastes of
some industrial estate. One of the last people in the
civilised world not to have a mobile phone, is Gareth.’

The older policeman smiled kindly. ‘If you’re convinced
of a mistake, we can radio a colleague at the hospital to
double check.’ He even shut his notebook, as if that was
that.

‘I think you’d better. He has a fuzzy old tattoo at the
top of his right arm, a capital G. If the man in hospital
hasn’t got that, it’s not Gareth.’

‘That ought to settle it.’ The older man nodded his young
colleague out of the back door to make the necessary call
while he chatted easily to Diane about how she liked
living in a village way out here, isolated by the
splendour of the Fens.

In less than two minutes the young officer returned. ‘G-
golf, top of right arm,’ he reported. ‘I’m afraid it
sounds like your husband, Mrs Jenner.’

‘Oh.’ Cold with shock, Diane fumbled her way into a
jacket against the June evening and her new burgundy
shoes from the hall cupboard. The shoes felt cold and
stiff without tights. A sale bargain, they clashed with
just about everything, including the turquoise skirt and
top she was wearing, but now wasn’t the time to be
particular. She must see what had happened to Gareth.

She’d never ridden in a police car before. Perched on the
back seat feeling sweatily sick, she watched swaying
nettles tangle with froths of cow parsley as the car
swished up the straight Fen lanes between fields divided
into rectangles, brown soil embroidered with green crops.
The land was flat for as far as the eye could see and
deep dykes drained water to the sea that had once made a
marsh of the people-made landscape, but was now miles
away. The older constable kept up his amiable
conversation. ‘Flat up here, isn’t it? We don’t normally
get up so far towards Holbeach and Spalding. Not many
windbreaks.’

‘People from outside the area do tend to feel the wind.’
Although she responded automatically, Diane’s mind was
churning. What the hell had Gareth been doing in a
helicopter?

‘And it was a special dinner you were cooking, was it?’

‘Silver wedding anniversary.’

He glanced back over his shoulder. ‘Never! You don’t look
old enough.’

She flushed. ‘I married young.’ Her heart was drumming
with apprehension. Gareth might not be a husband sent by
angels to make her life heaven on earth but he was her
husband. This morning, he’d given her a card, To My Wife
on our Silver Wedding Anniversary. He’d known that she
was cooking a celebration dinner: lamb steaks with herb
butter; new potatoes, broccoli and baby carrots from the
garden. He’d smiled and dropped a rare kiss on her cheek.
‘I’ll be home on time.’

Instead, he’d been in a helicopter crash. How badly did
you have to be hurt for the hospital to send the police
to inform the next of kin?

In the thirty minutes of the journey to Peterborough the
dread grew that the answer was, ‘Very badly’. The car
turned off Thorpe Road and parked between A & E and
Outpatients by an ambulance with East Anglian NHS Trust
on the side in dark green.

‘Here we are, Mrs Jenner.’

Floating through the automatic doors on a cloud of
unreality, she found herself the baton passed efficiently
from the policemen in the car to a PC Stone, who was
exactly what the public expected of a copper – a big,
stolid

man with buzz-cut hair and a mission to keep her calm.
Positively oozing positivity, he must have been top of
his police class in reassuring silently freaked women in
their best clothes and the wrong shoes. ‘I’m assured that
your husband isn’t in any danger, Mrs Jenner. And he’s in
good hands. I’ll tell you what I know so far.’ A & E was
busy but he found her a blue vinyl chair in the waiting
area. Her legs wobbled and she dropped down onto it,
wiping a prickle of sweat from her top lip....